


My Boy

by Venn



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Assault, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venn/pseuds/Venn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Normally, the fallout from the notoriety of Roosterteeth was fairly unimposing on their daily lives. People approached if they were recognized on the street, they didn’t really get a break from signing autographs, their privacy was… never the greatest. But generally, it didn’t lead to anything really detrimental— Anons on the internet were the worst it got. Until liquor… happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Boy

RTX was a month away, and the entirety of the Roosterteeth office was in much more of an uproar than they usually would be. Projects were due to be released, new and old, and with their new, five-day-a-week schedule, that meant that time constraints and tempers were particularly short. As a unit, everyone in the office worked well together. They had to, with all the crossover they all experienced.

  
It was the end of one of those long, hard days, when it was suggested that they go to get a cold, much needed beer.  Even Ray, who knew he would be sporting a Coke all night, needed the time out. So, as videos rendered across the various computers, the small group pushed out their chairs across the office and stood. Most of them would probably come back to finish working afterward, but now? It was time for liquor.

  
The group carpooled to the Crow Bar— Not because it was necessarily the closest or anyone’s favorite, but more because they had just finished recording a Left 4 Dead 2 Let’s Play, and for some reason it felt fitting that they go there after their day. That said, it still a bad bar by a long shot, so everything worked out fine.

  
Well, it was working out fine until ‘a drink’ turned into three, and the heat of Austin mixed with the confusing array of people at the bar forced Gavin outside to take a breath of air. It wasn’t that he had a hard time with crowds—  He loved them, actually, had a hard time yanking him out of any group at RTX— but with the alcohol and the sheer volume of people (Apparently it was some group’s birthday and as such, a huge… thing was happening.) he just had to catch his breath for a moment.

  
Finally managing to squeeze out the front door, Gavin waved to the friendly operator of the food truck right outside the establishment, holding the door open for yet more people that did not quite seem to fit within the bar’s usual tattooed, hipster demographic. Smiling at their backs, he inhaled deeply and made his way out to the back of the building.

  
Unfortunately, in ducking to the back for a bit more privacy, he was met with four men, one of which was puking rather… excitedly against the wall. The other three were laughing, texting, and calling the first a pussy, respectively. Gavin, however, paused, unsure of quite what to do.

  
In moments of uncertainty, Gavin usually went with his gut. “Ah," he said brightly, laughing slightly at the group— They didn’t pay attention at first. “It’s alright, mate, we’ve all kissed some girls we ain’t proud of." He was joking, of course, and even as the group went quiet (An odd time to find a lull in vomiting, Gavin would admit later.) his brain urged him to take it a step forward, “Though, I imagine you’ve had a fair few more’n me, huh?" Gavin let out a little giggle, not seeming to notice when the atmosphere switched from apprehensive to affronted.

  
"What was that, fuckface?" Said the one previously texting, flat-billed cap sideways on his head, a sneer on his lips as he looked Gavin up and down.

  
Startled by the hostility, Gavin looked up at the larger (Much larger, width and height-wise.) man and let out a little stammer of surprise— Nothing much more than noises. Until finally, “Er— Wha’? I was just makin’ a joke, you know. Joshin’ with him." He probably should have just said sorry and left.

  
Apparently easily goaded, the first man puffed up his chest a bit and took another step forward. “‘Joshin’ wiv’ ‘im’?" He mocked, accent atrocious, and probably intentionally so. “Fuck off, faggot," he growled, taking another step to Gavin and forcing the smaller Brit to hold his hands up in a mock surrender, eyes widening.

  
"Alright, alright, mate, calm down. I didn’t mean nothing by it. I’ll go," finally, the screaming, rational part of his brain seemed to catch up with him.

  
"Did he just call me ‘is mate?" Slurred the one who had previously been puking, and was now leaning against the wall, legs supporting his weight as if he were a chair.

  
"He did, bro," Laughing chimed in, and Insulting turned now, sliding into Gavin’s path and snarling down at him.

  
What was that phrase? Everything is bigger in Texas?? Gavin certainly knew their men were, at least, as he tried to maneuver around the hulking mass of drunken _bro_ in front of him. “Look, man," Gavin’s brain was sobering up real quick, now, liver apparently working overtime out of pure fear, “I don’t want any trouble. I was making a joke, but I see that was a bad idea, and now I’m going to go," Finally, he looked up at Insulting and frowned slightly, “If you could move?"

  
And that was when Insulting promptly turned into Punching. A fist, formed when Gavin hadn’t been looking at him apparently, reared back and very promptly collided with Gavin’s face. Surely there was protocol on how to stop people who were clearly just looking to fight from doing it? If there were, Gavin surely didn’t know it, as he let out a yelp and stumbled back, clutching his jaw.

  
"What the bloody hell was that for?" Gavin snapped, “Are you _mental_?" Alright, so maybe he wasn’t entirely sober. He should have watched his words back. Even Vomiting managed to look menacing.

  
Punching snorted condescendingly, “Then those drinks really didn’t fucking help, now, did they, _mate_?" And with that, another punch was thrown, this one catching Gavin a bit lower, nearly square in his throat, as his brain attempted a smooth duck.

  
The dodge only seemed to infuriate the four more, however, and Texting grabbed him by the collar of his too-tight polo, dragging him back and causing the smaller Brit to choke a bit and clutch at it, gasping. Insulting stepped forward now, eyes squinted, “Wait, dudes, that’s one of those gamers from up the street," he finally observed.  The other three paused, eyebrows furrowing, and let him continue as Gavin tugged and choked at the neck of his shirt. He could feel it slowly beginning to give out. “Yeah, man," Insulting confirmed after another beat, “He’s one of the faggots who dicks around there."

  
Texting let go of Gavin’s shirt, just as he began to turn an unhealthy shade of red, scowling, “Should we fuck off, then?"

  
Vomiting pushed his way forward, then, “Nah, nah, guys— Let’s.." His speech had not improved since the first punch, “If he’s a homo, he’s a homo, y’know? We oughtta just…. just do it." The ‘it’ was something that made Gavin’s stomach sink, as he slowly regained his breath and tried to remind his brain how to stand and run.

  
Finally managing to move his legs, Gavin shifted, and in doing so alerted the cluster to his movements. A sharp kick was delivered to his ribs, and Gavin fell, hard, again, crying out, “You bloody cocks!" He snarled. “Fuck off of me you fuckin’—" He was cut off by another grab to his hair and a kick to his chest.

  
Michael, meanwhile, inside of the bar, scowled and squinted at the crowd, pushing and shoving his way to Geoff— “Hey, Geoff!" He shouted, making the older man turn. “Have you seen Gavin around? He went to get some air forever ago and now we can’t fucking find him anywhere?"

  
"Did you try the bathroom?" The man shouted back, still obviously half-paying attention to something Jack was saying.

  
"Yeah, Ray said there’s only some chick making out with some dude back there!"

  
"Nice!" Geoff laughed, “You sure it wasn’t Gav?"

  
Michael rolled his eyes but looked to the other man who had weaseled his way beside Michael, “Was it him?"

  
"Unless he turned into a large black man, then I supremely doubt it," Ray replied calmly, taking another even sip of his soda, apparently not minding what he had witnessed.

  
"No!" Michael shouted over the music and conversation in the bar. This had not been the relaxing evening they had intended.

  
"Well fuck, dude, I don’t know where he is. I thought he was with you guys. I haven’t seen him since I grabbed him his first beer," Geoff said, frowning over at Michael. “You know where he could be?"

  
"I’ll check outside," Michael finally said, “Ray, can you-"

  
"Get up on the dance floor because this is my jam? Yeah, sure. Hey, bonus, because I like you, I’ll even look for Gavin while I’m there." And with that, he slid off.

  
"Alright, I’ll stay here in case he comes back, okay?" Geoff called over to Michael. “You check outside. I’ll start trying his cell and stuff." He pulled out his phone as if to guarantee he would do just that.

  
Michael nodded, “If I’m not back in five, come find me!" He yelled, and began making his way to the door— Which was more like shoving and pushing and muttering apologies and ‘fuck off’s but whatever, it was all the same, really.

  
Finally leaving, Michael let out a loud curse to the air, causing the people by the door to look startled and for him to scoff and promptly ignore them, taking the stairs two at a time and hopping down, waving at the food-truck guy who sort of knew them by name. Sort of because he didn’t know their names, just knew  them, as a whole.

  
"Hey, man," Michael said, approaching the man behind the counter, “Have you seen my friend? The dude with the schnozz, probably found a butterfly and chased it to parts unknown or some shit?" Michael waved a hand, dismissing the rest of his sentence.

  
After a beat claimed by a confused look, the man nodded, “Yeah," he said easily, “Went behind the building a little while ago. Didn’t see him come back around, though. He puking?"

  
"Guess we’re gonna find out, right?" Michael smiled and nodded his thanks, heading toward the back of the building.

  
He was promptly met with the sight of Gavin pinned against a lamp post, curled in on himself, hands over his head. His arms were bruised, but Michael could see no blood— Although he did see a shiner on one guy that was now apparently recording the beat down, and another man was cross-legged on the ground nursing a bloody nose. A third was apparently passed out on the ground.

  
That said, Michael didn’t _actually_ take that long to assess the situation. Instead, his mouth worked first, “What the fuck?" He shouted into the fray, which paused and looked over at the origin of the shout. “What the fuck do you think you’re fucking doing, you cocksuckers?"

  
"Are you fucking talking to us?" One of the men said, snarling over to Michael. “Walk the fuck away, tubs. This ain’t your business," he said cruelly before turning back to Gavin, apparently with the intention to kick him.

  
Unfortunately, that kick would never be, as Michael launched himself at the man, sweeping out his other leg from under him and throwing a punch to his face. There was a loud shout, and the scuffle went on, Gavin not moving from his spot on the ground while Michael and the man rolled about. Finally, with a sharp exhale from a punch to the stomach, he gasped and felt a fist connect with his eye, and Gavin, who had looked up, let out a noise of dismay.

  
"Michael—" He called, and the man immediately turned to him.

  
"Oh, so you know this faggot, huh?" he said, leering down at Michael underneath him. “Then this is just fuckin’ right, innit?"

  
"I guess it depends on your definition of right," Said a calm voice from the side of the bar. Ray, Geoff, Ryan, Jack, and the rest stood there, some more calm and collected, others not pretending they were in some sort of zombie apocalypse situation. “Like right, as in, “I really wanna taste what soup made out of my blood tastes like, so beating this guy up would probably make that happen," right, or, “Man, I want that Soldier with all the tattoos and his friends to beat me up tonight,", kind of right? Which one are you talking, here, because those can both happen at once right now if you play your cards right." Geoff’s voice sounded amused, but there was an undercurrent of cold that read ‘Run’ throughout it all.

  
They did just that. The man standing over Michael stepping back as Vomiting and Laughing were pushed to their feet by Texting. Michael, however, was a bit of an asshole— As such, with a snarl that was equal parts giddy and cruel, promptly launched his leg between Insulting’s legs, causing his knees to buckle and for him to fall. No one laughed, really, except for Gavin, who began giggling as he crawled off, finally having returned from the little ball he’d made himself.

  
His nose was bleeding, his eye swollen and his lip split, but mostly he seemed fine. The group at the side of the bar waited until they were all gone before converging on the two, Geoff nodding at Michael before rushing to the man he considered his son, helping Gavin up and scowling at him, muttering questions that Gavin answered and repeated as the rest of the group followed.

  
It wasn’t until Michael was driving Gavin home that they had a chance to speak.

  
"Hey, Michael," Gavin said quietly, moving the icepack away from his eye and glancing at him, “Thanks for saving me."

  
"I doubt I _saved_ you, that’s kinda dramatic, don’t you think?" Michael asked, glancing sideways at Gavin. But his lips still twitched up, anyway. “But you’re welcome, whatever."

  
"I mean it, Michael. Thanks for coming t’look at all," Gavin turned back to the front, looking out the windshield at the empty highway. “You’re my boy, man. Just saying I’m glad and all."

  
"Whatever, you would have done the same for me," Michael brushed off the thanks awkwardly. He was never really good with compliments and thank you’s and shit like that. “Besides, I didn’t really do it for you. I did it for the sick bruises," he deflected easily.

  
That got Gavin to laugh. “Well you kinda fucked up there, didn’t you? You look like a level five who got his money taken at break," He said brightly, smiling over at him teasingly, tugging at his seatbelt and shifting, moving the ice pack from his swollen eye to his lip, glad his nose hadn’t been broken, after all.

  
"The fuck you mean by that?" Michael snapped as they parked in the now-dark lots of Roosterteeth headquarters. Ducking out of his car, followed by Gavin, he clicked his door locked before unlocking the door to the warehouse, heading inside.

  
"Well, I lucked out there, not you. I got the tanned skin and scruff— Lookit me!" The Brit exclaimed, gesturing to himself, “I look like a fuckin’ adventurer!" He grinned recklessly, and didn’t bother mentioning the pain it caused in his entire face, picking up his backpack from the floor of the office where he left it, tucking a few games and other essentials inside.

  
Michael, however, grunted and rolled his eyes, “You look like a dude who got his ass kicked is what you fucking look like."

  
Gavin smiled, though, and locked the doors to the facility after Michael, walking to the car and getting in after him. “Hey, hey, Michael. Michael," he said eagerly, taking the ice pack away from his eye and holding his fist out toward the man in the driver’s seat.

  
"What, Gavin?" Michael grumbled before looking up and staring at the fist presented to him. “The fuck you want me to do with this?"

  
"Team Nice Dynamite, Michael," Gavin said teasingly, wiggling his fist anxiously.

  
Despite himself, Michael laughed quietly and put his own bloody-knuckled fist to Gavin’s. “Team Nice Dynamite, Gavvy."


End file.
